Lazy Bones Read Free Page A

forward so that he could see the face of the dead man clearly.
    His eyes were closed, his nose smal and slightly upturned. The side of the face was dotted with pinprick-size bloodspots. The mouth was a mask of dried gore, the lips ragged, the whole hideous mess criss-crossed with spittle strings. The stained, uneven teeth were bared and had gnawed through the bottom lip as the ligature had tightened around the neck.
    Thorne guessed that the man was somewhere in his late thirties. It was just a guess.
    From somewhere above them, Thorne became aware of a rumble suddenly dying - a boiler switching itself off. Stifling a yawn, he looked up, watched cobwebs dancing graceful y around the plaster ceiling rose. He wondered if the other residents would care too much about their morning hot water when they found out what had happened in Room Six.
    Thorne took a pace towards the bed. Hendricks spoke without looking round.
    'Bar the fact that he's dead, I know bugger al , so don't even ask. Al right?'
    'I'm fine. Thanks for asking, Phil, and how are you?'
    'Right, I see. Like you only came over here for a fucking chinwag...?'
    'You are such a miserable sod. What's wrong with exchanging a few
    pleasantries? Trying to make al this a bit easier?'
    Hendricks said nothing.

    Thorne leaned over to scratch at his anne through the bodysuit. 'Phil...'
    'I told you, I don't know. Look for yourself. It seems pretty obvious how he died, but it's not that simple. There's... other stuff gone on.'
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    'Right. Thanks ...'
    Hendricks moved back a little and nodded towards one of the SOCOs, who moved quickly towards the bed, picking up a smal toolboX as he went, The officer knelt down and opened the box, revealing a display of dainty, shining instruments. He took out a smal scalpel and leaned across, reaching towards the victim's neck.
    Thorne watched as the SOCO pushed a plastic-covered finger down between the ligature and the neck, struggling to get any purchase. From where Thorne was standing, it looked like washing line, the sort of stuff you can get in any hardware shop. Smooth, blue plastic. He could see just how tightly it was biting into the dead man's neck. The officer took his scalpel and careful y cut away the line in such a way as to preserve the knot that was gathered at the back of the
    neck. This was, of course, basic procedure. Sensible and chil ing. They'd need it to compare with any others they might find. Thorne glanced across at Dave Hol and who raised his eyebrows and turned up his palms. What's happening? How long? Thorne shrugged. He'd been there more than' an hour already. He and Hol and had been over the room, taking notes, bagging a few things up, getting a feel of the scene. Now it was the technicians' turn and Thorne hated the wait. It might have made him feel better, were he able to put his impatience down to a desire to get stuck in. He wished he could say, honestly, that he was itching to begin doing his job, to kick off the process that might one day bring this man's kil er to justice.
    As it was, he just wanted to do what had to be done quickly, and get out of that room.
    He wanted to strip off the plastic suit, get in his car and drive away. Actual y, if he were being real y honest with himself, he would have had to admit that only part of him wanted that. The other part was buzzing. The part that knew the difference between some murder scenes and others; that was able to measure these things. Thorne had seen the victims of enraged spouses and jealous lovers. He had stared at the bodies of business rivals and gangland grasses. He knew when he was looking at something out of the ordinary.
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    This was a significant murder scene. This was the work of a kil er driven by something special, something spectacular.
    The room stank of hatred and of rage. It also stank of pride. Hendricks, as if reading Thorne's mind, turned to him, half smiling. 'Just another five minutes, OK? I'm not going to get anything else here...'
    Thorne